


There Was an Old Woman, November 1973

by BobbyCrocker101



Category: Kojak (TV 1973)
Genre: 1970s, Attempted Murder, Button Men, Columbus Day, Detectives, Extortion, Gen, Local Politics, Lower Manhattan Protective Association, Mafia Hits, Manhattan South, Mobs, NYPD, New York City, Policy Banks, Policy Runners, Political Rallies, Protection Rackets, Racketeers, hired killers, homicides, mob hits, murders, racketeering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25978156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobbyCrocker101/pseuds/BobbyCrocker101
Summary: Kojak's thoughts concerning the events that occurred in the Season 1 episode ‘One for the Morgue’ with a few bits changed and added.This is an original story set in November 1973Feedback welcome





	There Was an Old Woman, November 1973

**Author's Note:**

> None of the characters belong to me; I'm just playing with them for a while before putting them back in their box. No money is being, or will be made from this story.
> 
> I was 15 in September 1973 when "Kojak" first aired, and had other things to do. Now retired, I’ve finally watched this wonderful old TV show for the first time. I’m from the UK and have never visited the US, but have made use of the internet to gain information about the NYPD and the city of New York. I apologise in advance for any language confusion.
> 
> In the Season 2 episode “Nursemaid” (1974) Crocker’s ID shows him to have been born in 1943 which would make him 30 in 1973, but because he's occasionally referred to as being very young and is often called "Kid" or "Junior", my version of him was born in 1951 which makes him 22 in this story, and as little is known about his back story, I've made up my own.
> 
> Original characters - none
> 
> Spoilers - large ones for the Season 1 episode 'One For The Morgue'
> 
> Glossary:  
> Hutzpah = Yiddish for audacity, impudence, cheek, or extreme self-confidence  
> Tuchus = Yiddish for butt, arse, or rear end
> 
> Feedback welcome. Enjoy!

Monday 8th October 1973: Columbus Day. In any other community this would be a day of fun with music, dancing and family entertainments, but down on Clinton Street the Lower Manhattan Protective Association were holding their annual rally, and knowing there was a contract out on their leader, Michael X Tomaso, I was at the scene with a number of hand-picked officers mixing with the crowd while on the look-out for anything suspicious. So far the day had been trouble-free. 

The place was crowded and everyone seemed to be having a good time; a band was playing music and people had begun dancing. At one point I spotted Tomaso himself dancing with his mother. I wandered through the crowd and ended up next to Detective Salerno who was complaining that Tomaso was having himself a ball on what should have been HIS day off. I told him the man was entitled and carried on mingling. Reaching the edge of the crowd I grabbed a walkie talkie from a uniformed officer and asked Crocker if he’d seen anything. He asked me to check out the two guys over by the podium, who were dressed like gangsters – all they needed was a violin case each! Anyway, I already knew who THOSE guys were; Tomaso’s bodyguards. There was movement in the crowd as Serafin, Tomaso’s ‘number one boy’ climbed on to the podium and began to speak.

“A year ago this here neighbourhood was a rat’s nest; you couldn’t even walk your family through it in broad daylight…” and whose fault was THAT I thought. There were murmurs from the crowd. “…Well things are a little better this year aren’t they?” Someone in the crowd cheered. “… I mean it’s a hundred per-cent improvement isn’t it?” There were more cheers. “… and what made this neighbourhood safe it THIS…” Serafin turned and pointed to the Lower Manhattan Protective Association banner hanging up behind the podium. “… and what made THIS was a man who had the guts to speak out and tell it like it is and do something about it…” he ended his speech by introducing Michael X Tomaso to the crowd, who cheered wildly as the man himself got to his feet and took the microphone.

“Did anybody here read this morning’s paper?” he began. “You know the one I’m talking about; the one you wrap your garbage in.” There were cheers and whistles from the crowd. “Now the newspapers have been saying that this is a front for the Syndicate. Now I’M saying if this is a front for the Syndicate then God help the SYNDICATE!” Everyone laughed. 

At that moment my attention was drawn to two men brawling on the ground. Crocker and some of the uniformed guys had run across and grabbed them before things got out of hand. Then two black guys pushed through the crowd and fired at Tomaso hitting him in the leg and the chest, and I realised we’d been set up. The two gunmen managed to escape in a blue Lincoln and I ordered Crocker to see what he could do while I checked on Tomaso.

I arrived back at the podium as he was being helped to the ground by his two bodyguards. He looked in remarkably good health for someone who’d been hit twice and noticing a hole in his shirt and a distinct lack of blood I ripped the garment open and saw the bullet-proof vest. Serafin asked where the hell WE’D been. Salerno called me over to where a small crowd had gathered. We moved the crowd away and there lying on the ground was a little old lady; an innocent bystander who had only a few moments ago been enjoying herself. I ordered the nearest patrol officer to send for an ambulance and the Coroner. I looked down at the woman as she lay in her husband’s arms and wondered who she was; did she have children? Grandchildren? Friends? All of it ripped away in a mere moment in time and it made me mad.

****

Frank and I eventually arrived back at the precinct. We were both angry. Frank told me we’d been ‘suckered’. I asked him what else was new. Unfortunately Crocker picked that moment to bring some papers for the captain to sign and the poor kid got yelled at by the both of us. He’s been with us for a couple of months now and has got used to my ‘open door policy’ where the men can just walk into my office without knocking. But he SHOULD have known better than to interrupt the captain. I saw by his reaction that he realised that too.

We’d known for several weeks that there was a contract out on Tomaso and Frank regretted not having more uniformed officers on show during the rally; perhaps the gunmen would have been frightened off, but it was no good boo-hooing about it now. The one thing that amazed the both of us was that Tomaso’s main rival Don Cleveland had had the hutzpah to pull off the hit in the FIRST place. I told him it wasn’t a matter of hutzpah but more one of survival. Following Frank into his office I suggested he put himself in Cleveland’s shoes. He’s a young hood with a piece of the Westside waterfront; a GOOD piece. Plus he has all of the ‘policy action’ that goes with it. On the other side of town there’s another hot young hood, Tomaso, with a piece of the EASTSIDE waterfront and all of the ‘policy action’ that goes with THAT. They might be the best of friends, partners even. And then Cleveland takes a little ‘trip’ and winds up doing five years in Sing Sing. He comes out and finds that Tomaso now owns all the old territory including HIS and he’s not about to get any of it back, so what does he do? Does he pack his bags and get out of town, or does he make his move? Besides I suddenly thought; who said CLEVELAND ordered the hit?

****

The following morning I met Crocker in the precinct lobby. He looked none the worse for being yelled at the day before. I noticed he was carrying Tomaso’s bullet-proof vest and an envelope which contained two 9mm slugs; one removed from Tomaso's leg and the other from the vest, both with no more impact than a couple of BBs. As we walked up the stairs Crocker handed me the vest; it was a nice piece of merchandise I told him, but not the sort of thing Tomaso would normally wear. I knew the guy: he liked the ladies and a bullet-proof vest wasn’t something that fit with his macho image. We walked into my office and Crocker pointed out that it was a good thing Tomaso HAD changed his image yesterday as the vest had probably saved his life. But I wasn’t happy. At that moment my phone rang; it was Gil Weaver ‘our man in Harlem’ requesting a ‘meet’. He hadn’t been in touch for a while and I was beginning to develop a rash.

****

I met Weaver down by the river. He told me that Cleveland’s organisation was exploding like a July 4th firecracker. I asked him if he had anything that could ‘nail’ Cleveland to the attack on Tomaso, but he said he had nothing yet. He also had nothing on the two gunmen. In fact he went as far as to say that he didn’t think they were part of Cleveland’s organisation because he’d been working undercover with them for two months and knew just about every one of Cleveland’s ‘playmates’. He suggested that maybe Cleveland had gone ‘outside’. I suggested that perhaps they’d got wise to the fact that HE'S a cop, but Weaver said he’d been careful and there was no way they could have found THAT out. I asked him if he had any idea where Cleveland was hiding, but Weaver claimed that no one knew where the man was. He thought maybe somewhere up-town or perhaps in the West Village; the man was scared he added. I told Weaver to keep his eyes and ears open as I needed to find Cleveland before Tomaso did. He then informed me that I’d have to join the queue as there was an open contract out on the man; twenty-five thousand dollars, and you didn’t even have to be a member of the ‘union’.

****

Arriving back at the precinct I spotted Crocker in the entrance hall standing in front of the counter; he was talking to someone on the telephone. He called me over and said there was a message for me. He handed the receiver over and began heading toward the stairs. 

“Cleveland’s policy bank is at Lenny’s Arcade,” that was all the caller said before he hung up.

I yelled at Crocker that we’d just got a break and told him to rouse the troops.

****

Arriving outside the arcade on 72nd Street we saw three black guys standing huddled in a group on the sidewalk, who when they saw us approaching, broke up their meeting and tried to make a run for it. One of the men I recognised as a ‘policy runner’ called ‘Willy’. I let Stavros and Armus deal with HIM while Crocker and I grabbed the other two; a small man wearing sunglasses and his large friend known locally as 'Jumbo'. Stavros and Armus brought ‘Willy’ over to me and Stavros handed me an envelope which he’d ‘liberated’ from the man’s coat pocket containing all his ‘policy slips’. I ordered the ‘Three Amigos’ to be taken to the precinct.

****

That evening as I was driving through town Crocker radioed to say our mystery caller had given us another ‘policy tip’ on Cleveland; Amsterdam Avenue, between 78th Street and 79th Street. I made my way over there and met up with my detective who had already got a team assembled, ready and waiting. The men we were looking for were gathered in a shop doorway. I positioned myself further up the road with the team while Crocker approached them on foot from the opposite direction. When they saw his badge they made a run for it straight into our lovin’ arms. We lined them up against the window of a local butcher's shop facing inwards, which must have surprised the owner who was probably wondering what there was in his window display that was suddenly attracting so much attention. Naturally they all proclaimed their innocence. One of the team handed Crocker a package. I asked who the ‘main man’ was, but received no answer. I told those assembled that there was enough trouble in the neighbourhood without any new faces showing up. One guy told me we had nothing on him, and demanded to know if we had a warrant. I ignored him and ordered Crocker to get the men down town and book them, and most importantly, not to lose any of the evidence. As they left one of the men turned to me and asked who’d been tipping us off. I told him whoever it was obviously didn’t like their organization very much.

****

I met up with Gil Weaver down at the Fulton Fish Market early the following morning. I asked him if he’d got a smell of Cleveland yet. I wanted to know who my ‘benefactor’ was: I mean four anonymous calls in the past couple of days, all against Cleveland. Someone must like me an AWFUL lot to be making all these phone calls against the man. Weaver was surprised I didn’t know who it was. He said HE didn’t know who it was either, but one thing he DID know was that Cleveland’s men were scared. Not being used to all this ‘heat’ they were ‘pulling up sticks’ left and right, he told me. A few more ‘busts’ like the ones we’ve been making lately and Cleveland will soon have no organization left! As a thank you, I gave him one of the two fish I’d bought to give to his mother, and took the other home to MY mother.

****

Later that evening we received ANOTHER tip off, directing us to a warehouse near the docks. I figured it must be one of Cleveland’s policy banks, maybe even the man himself, and called in a lot of back-up units. Making sure everyone was in position I used a skeleton key to unlock the door and slowly and quietly we entered. On queue Crocker fired his gun into the air and alerted those gathered to our presence. They tried to get away, but there were too many of us and we soon had everyone gathered together. I asked where Cleveland was but once again, no one seemed to know. I made myself comfortable at a makeshift table which was covered in ‘policy slips’, poured myself a cup of coffee from the flask someone had kindly brought and asked my team to give the place a good ‘toss’ much to the chagrin of ‘Ferret Face’ Coughlin, an old ‘acquaintance’ who immediately started shouting about his rights.

It wasn’t long before Crocker hit ‘pay dirt’ and found enough guns to start a small war hidden inside an overturned crate. I've noticed the kid has a real knack for finding things – especially people. I asked him to separate the guns and tag them, but one item caught my attention and I asked him to bring it over. It was a 9mm; Mrs Cistorna had been killed by a 9mm. Coughlan kept on about illegal searches and his rights. I ordered my men to take him and his friends down to the precinct, and not to allow them anywhere near a telephone until I arrived. I needed a moment to think.

****

A while later I walked into the squad room. Coughlin was being interviewed by Fowler and was STILL complaining about his rights. I informed him that things would be as tough as he wanted to make them. He demanded access to a telephone so he could call his lawyer. I told him all the phone lines were busy right now, but if he wanted to cooperate straight away things would be easier for him. I wandered into my office; Coughlan followed but was stopped at the door by a couple of my men. I indicated that it was alright for him to enter and they moved aside He informed me that we’d ‘busted’ into private property without a warrant and that the case wouldn’t stick and certainly wouldn’t go to court. The DA would laugh at us he claimed. I reminded him that the building in which he and the others were picked up had been abandoned which meant it was city property, and you didn’t need a warrant to search city property. He went quiet while he thought about what I’d just said. I asked him, not for the first time, who his ‘banker’ was, but he thought I was playing some game with him, that we already knew it was Tomaso, which was why we were only hassling HIM and anyone else who worked for Cleveland! Getting tired of his whinging and whining I handed Coughlan back to Fowler and instructed him to take the man to a phone so he could call his attorney. It had been a long night and I wanted to go home. But just as I was crossing the lobby downstairs Sergeant Prince from Forensics walked through the outer door. Asking him what it was that brought him out on such a cold October night, he informed me he was going to make me a VERY happy man and proceeded to pull a hand gun from his coat pocket; it was the nine millimetre Crocker had found in the ‘arsenal’ at the warehouse. He also had a bullet.

“One hand gun,” he informed me “9mm, serial number 4A77932. One bullet, also 9mm, taken from the left leg of one Michael X Tomaso.” He held both up for me to see; “‘father’, ‘son’.” I asked him if he was positive. He was: Ballistics had fired the gun and there was no doubt, it was the same weapon that had shot Tomaso in the leg and killed Mrs Cistorna. I walked across to the counter and grabbed the phone. Calling upstairs I asked Frank to hang on to Cleveland’s men as I now had a new charge to ‘hit’ them with. Putting the receiver down I asked Prince to let me have his report as soon as possible. He put his hand into his coat pocket again and pulled out said report. No sooner said than done he informed me. I told him he was a ‘prince’. By the expression on his face I guess he’d heard THAT one a few times before. Wearily I made my way back upstairs. It was going to be a long night. 

****

After spending the rest of the night dozing at my desk, I'd spent the early part of the morning interviewing another of the men we picked up at the warehouse; a big guy called Jimmy Slade. I looked through his yellow sheet and the case file at what we had so far and informed him that we had witnesses that had seen him repeatedly entering the building during the past four weeks. He told me I was lying, and claimed to have never been in the warehouse before being arrested. I told him we had three witnesses and they couldn’t ALL be liars. I got up from my chair and walked over to the door to the interrogation room. Crocker, who'd also been up all night, was currently ‘interviewing’ Coughlan, but judging by the shrug of his shoulders wasn’t getting very far.

In the meantime Jimmy was still going on, telling me that he rarely if ever came to this part of town. I informed him that he’d come down on Columbus Day, that he’d come down with the premeditated purpose of killing a specific individual and that instead he’d killed a sweet little old lady, and that’s homicide. Jimmy continued, telling me he hadn't had anything to do with the killing. I informed him that we had his gun, the 9mm, and we’d picked it up in his ‘place of business’ and the bullets we had matched. Jimmy pointed out that that didn’t make it HIS ‘piece’; there had been three other ‘brothers’ in the warehouse besides HIM. I checked my watch and informed him that the three other guys were alibied, and that left HIM in the ‘wringer’. Once again he told me he knew nothing about the 9mm being at the warehouse, that he wasn’t lying. Something in the way he looked at me told me he wanted to speak privately. I asked him what he knew about running policy numbers for Cleveland, so that when I spoke to the DA I could tell him how wonderful he’d been in helping me. Jimmy looked at the doors. I walked over and closed the door to the interrogation room and then the one that led to the squad room. Jimmy then agreed to tell me what he knew.

****

I was in the squad room pouring myself some coffee when Frank caught up with me. He asked how we were doing. Good and bad I replied. We’d got a lot of information on Cleveland, but nothing on the ‘hit’. Frank reminded me that we DID have the place and the weapon, but it wouldn't ‘wash’ I replied. It wouldn’t be any good unless it was airtight! Frank poured himself some coffee and asked what we should do next. I suggested we hold our prisoners until the morning and then once they’d ‘made bail’ put tails on them. 

Frank went off to speak to Edwards about something leaving me to my thoughts. At that moment Fowler came over and informed me that he had a couple of guys out in the corridor who were claiming they could identify the Columbus Day hitmen. Frank returned and I informed him of Fowler’s bit of news. I also told him something wasn’t right. How had anyone on the ‘outside’ known about the arrests I asked; who could have leaked it? As we walked along the corridor Frank reminded me that it would have been very difficult to keep a 'lid’ on something like THIS; the ‘scuttlebutt’ would have been all over the neighbourhood by the time we’d brought Cleveland’s men in. I angrily informed him that no one would have heard anything from any of MY men! Frank told me I should stop nit-picking. After all we now had a chance to ‘crack' this thing within seventy-two hours, which was pretty good going. So who cares if 'the word' had got out? And with that he walked into to his office.

I remained outside in the corridor and grabbed Crocker by the arm as he passed by. I was going to say something to him, but there were too many people about so I told him to go get the line-up organised. Fowler arrived along with two gentlemen who were introduced to me as Mr Falcone and Mr Carmone. I asked Mr Falcone to remain out in the corridor while I took Mr Carmone through to the viewing room. Crocker had everyone organised, with their hats off and facing front. Our ‘witness’ peered through the window and immediately recognised the two gunmen; the man wearing the red sports shirt (Jimmy Slade) and another guy wearing a dark blue shirt and several chains around his neck. I escorted Mr Carmone back into the corridor and repeated the process with Mr Falcone, and surprise, surprise; he picked out the same two suspects. I asked him if he was sure. He assured me the two men he’d picked out were definitely the gunmen from the Columbus Day rally. I thanked him and sent him on his way. And with that the case was closed. But I still wasn’t happy. It had all been too easy. 

****

A few days later almost everyone on the squad was gathered in front of the portable television we keep about the place watching the news report on our closing down of Cleveland’s organisation. Frank was grinning from ear to ear pleased with the result and that for once the Department was being shown favourably in the media, but something was still bugging me. The news reader's voice droned on in the background: 

“And I must add in conclusion that the investigation and its speedy and successful completion were due in large measure to the work of detective lieutenant Theo Kojak of the Manhattan South precinct.” Frank nudged me. Even the guys in the holding cage seemed impressed. “With more than twenty citations of merit for protecting you…” Crocker ran into room carrying a file, he asked what he’d missed and was told ‘everything’. He looked at me apologetically, or perhaps it was in sympathy. I love nothing better than solving homicides and arresting those responsible, but he knows I also hate all the media attention. Unfortunately in this job it goes with the territory. The news reporter continued “…So when I hear anyone put the NYPD on ‘the knock’, whether it’s a private citizen or a member of the sound communications, I know that there are a lot of cops on the job; great cops like Lieutenant Kojak…” I switched the television off and told the men to get back to work.

“The Commissioner put in a nice ‘plug’ for you,” Frank remarked.

“He’s a politician like the rest of them, isn’t he?” I walked through the squad room and out into corridor carrying a large drink.

“Can’t you EVER be gracious?” Frank asked, exasperated.

“Yeah, sure. Something smells about this case.” I followed Frank into his office.

“Hey are you going to start something?” Frank commented at I closed the door behind us.

I asked him to let me put a couple of things together and see if they add up. I put my cup on his desk and took off my jacket. 

“There were over a thousand people at that rally,” I reminded him; “total panic, confusion...” I hung my jacket on back of a chair and picked up my drink, “but the two witnesses we had in the precinct earlier both made iron-clad positive identifications!” I lay down on Frank’s sofa; I find it’s a good place to mull things over. He sat on corner of his desk. I told him I was closer to those ‘button men’ than anybody else and I couldn’t make a positive ID. “Those two witnesses who said they were in back of the platform? I was right there; I didn’t see anyone anywhere near the platform, and all those helpful phone calls and the gun? Twenty years I’ve been on the force and I’ve never heard of a hitman holding onto a ‘piece’!”

“So they were amateurs!” Frank commented as I loosened my tie.

Then I added, there was the issue of the 9mm, which would normally have been more than enough to blow a guy’s leg off, and yet it had hardly dented Tomaso. That can’t happen unless the bullet had been modified to take a smaller ‘load’! It didn’t make any sense, it didn’t add up. I told Frank I thought we’d been ‘had’; that had had all been too easy. I nodded to myself. This case was still ‘up for grabs’.

Frank reminded me that we had a positive identification from two witnesses which was more than enough. He told me the DA was satisfied, the Commissioner was satisfied, and therefore I myself am satisfied. Frank got off his desk; I got up from the sofa and headed toward the door.

“Yeah I understand. You’re the boss!” I told him. I picked up my jacket and left the room. I was still far from happy.

****

That evening once I was sure Frank had gone home, I called the men together for a quiet ‘chat’ in my office. 

“What’s up lieutenant? Captain McNeil said the case was closed.” Crocker remarked. 

“Officially this case IS closed,” I replied, “which doesn’t mean that if you see something you don’t follow through; that’s your job, and it’s what you get paid for; keeping your eyes open.” I got up from my chair and paced round the room. “Look, between you and me I’m not thoroughly convinced that Cleveland ordered that ‘hit’. So if he didn’t do it; who did? Who stood to gain the most from Tomaso’s death even more than Cleveland? His numero uno man Serafin OK? Hey, this of course you do on your own time, and let’s not make Captain McNeil nervous; the less he knows the better, understand?” Dismissing the men I looked at Crocker who looked back at me. I hoped he'd got my silent message; that I wanted HIM to find something. He’s been with the Detective’s Division for a couple of months now, but I still felt I needed to convince Frank that selecting HIM over other more experienced officers was worth putting myself on the line for. This could be a chance for the kid to shine. The men left the room and I sat back down.

****

I arrived at work a couple of days later to find Crocker waiting for me in my office looking very pleased with himself.

“If you SEE something you said. Well I was out yesterday minding my own business and I saw something YOU might be interested in.” 

“OK, so tell me.” I told him. He said he could do better; that he could SHOW me. We headed out of the precinct and got into my car. Driving through town he explained what he’d been up to on his day off. 

We knew where Tomaso lived, and which hospital he'd been taken to after the shooting, and Crocker had used his charms on one of the nurses and had been told that Tomaso had an appointment at 10am that morning so he'd waited in his car on the corner near the hospital and had seen Tomaso and Serafin emerge from the building and get into a large black Chrysler. Keeping his distance he'd followed them to a nearby crossroads where they'd parked outside Tomaso’s apartment building. The man had been helped out of the car and taken inside by one of his aides. Serafin had then walked on down the road and had got into another car and driven off, with Crocker carefully following. He'd spotted Serafin meeting with a guy in a bar and had watched unseen as the man handed Serafin an envelope. He'd then followed him to The Tinderbox boutique where he'd been handed another envelope. This went on all day and last night Crocker had followed Serafin to a diner where he'd met with another man who had given him yet another envelope. He'd then followed him back to Tomaso’s apartment building and once the man had gone inside had spent some time chatting with the doorman before returning home with a full notebook. 

I was impressed. Crocker had done exactly what I’d hoped he’d do. 

We spent the rest of the day cruising round town following Serafin as he repeated his route from the day before. I'd brought a small camera with me and managed to take a few photographs of him picking up his envelopes. That evening as it was getting dark we followed him to a soul food joint where he met up with a black dude who was sitting eating at a table in the window. 

“The runners I can understand, but THIS guy’s a banker.” I remarked.

“Interesting? Suspicious?” Crocker asked. Until now he’d not said much; preferring to let me see for myself.

“A black consul and a white mob? You can bet your tuchus it’s interesting.” I took some more pictures. We watched as Serafin left the diner with his 'friend', got into his car and drove off. There was something familiar about the black guy, but I couldn’t put my finger on where I’d seen him before. Crocker started the car and we went back to tailing Serafin, stopping opposite a brightly lit barber's shop.

“It’s a Tomaso front.” I remarked. Crocker asked if it was his centre of operations.

“It’s ONE of them; he’s got a different location for every racket.” I told him. He asked if I thought Serafin was planning another 'hit' attempt. That’s what I like about Crocker; he rarely jumps to conclusions, but prefers to ask MY opinion.

I thought that with Cleveland now out of the picture Serafin was in a great spot to get 'ambitious'. But if he made a single move every cop and mobster in town would know WHO was behind him. I shook my head. There was something missing; I don’t know… something missing.

At that moment Tomaso arrived in another car. He was accompanied by two of his henchmen. We watched as they helped him out of the car and into the shop.

Tomaso… Tomaso… OK… THAT’S what’s missing! Finally all the pieces fitted together.

****

Back in the squad room the following morning Crocker was sitting at Stavros’ desk and pinning up newspaper cuttings relating to Tomaso’s organization on the glass divider. I took one down and looked at it. Crocker was looking at another. He’d also arranged to have enlargements made of some of them along with the photographs I'd taken yesterday, which Tracy had just brought upstairs from the print room.

Crocker showed me a copy of the photo I’d taken of the black man Serafin had met with in the soul food diner. He then showed me a copy of a photograph he’d had blown up from a newspaper cutting. Using a magnifying glass I compared the two images. There was no doubt; the man in both was one and the same. I asked Crocker if he knew the man's identity. He told me it was Mitch DuBois: a name I had heard over the years, although I'd never encountered the man before now.

“Well HE'S a hitman; would you believe Tomaso ordered a hit on himself?” I paced up and down the floor. Crocker continued to look at the photos. “You gotta give the guy credit; he must have spent a lot of time thinking this one out.” I remarked. Crocker got up and sat on the corner of the desk, and picked up the case file. 

“Well it was worth it; it paid off.” He replied.

“He orders a hit on himself and the whole world thinks it came from Cleveland.” I continued to pace up and down.

“Which explains why he didn’t get hurt by the nine millimetres; it was all rigged!” Crocker realised.

“That way he doesn’t get into any trouble with the mob. Maybe he gets lucky; WE go out and ‘bust’ Cleveland and WE ‘pin’ the ‘murder rap’ on him too!” Talk about getting someone else to do your dirty work for you! 

“Yeah he set this up beautifully; he sits back and watches US get rid of the competition for him!”

“I can just taste this punk...” I puffed angrily on my cigarette.

“Why not nail him on the ‘policy operation’?” Crocker suggested. I glared back at him and he realised instantly that he’d said the wrong thing and dropped his head, a move I’m beginning to become very familiar with. So far today we’d been working well together bouncing thoughts and ideas off one another: Crocker proving to me that my 'investment' in him HAD been worth it. But one naive remark, the bubble burst and the moment was gone. I walked back across the room to him. He looked back at me flinching slightly.

Angrily I told him we could ‘nail’ Tomaso on THAT anytime we wanted to; that he was there for the plucking. But THIS was a real punk; real garbage, and I wasn’t talking about his hookers and his pimps and his policy runners. I was talking about how Tomaso had tried to pull the wool over this whole department, and there’s one old lady dead because of him, and THAT'S what we’re gonna ‘nail his hide’ on! I strode into my office and slammed the door closed behind me.

****

That evening I met up again with Gil Weaver. I asked him if he knew Mitch DuBois. He said he did, that the man used to do some ‘pimping’ up town and still does a little ‘dealing’. He also informed me that he'd got some news on Cleveland, namely where he was hiding; over in the West Village, but we would need to move fast as the man was leaving for Canada in a couple of days; his intention was to lay low for a while and then come back and start over. I really ought to ‘bust’ Cleveland I thought; there WAS a warrant out on him after all. In the meantime an idea was forming in my mind as to how we could grab DuBois.

****

Back at the precinct I went over my plan to get DuBois with the team and had persuaded Weaver to go back undercover, this time wearing a 'wire'.

“If this scheme is going to work you’re gonna have to play it very cool with DuBois. They tell me he’s a pretty foxy 'cat', so be careful.” I told Weaver. Crocker finished wiring him up, and we tested the system until we were satisfied it was working. I told Weaver that the wire was only short range and not to wander too far away from us. Once everything was ready we headed out.

****

It was dark and out on street Weaver was talking to someone out of sight in the entrance to an art shop. Crocker and I were sat in the car listening in.

“Thank you brother!" Gil spoke and then walked on down the road. “If you’re reading me lieutenant it’s that pool hall in the next block.” He reported. We followed and watched as he entered the building. 

“Say baby what’s happening?” We heard.

“Same old 'jive'." A voice replied: DuBois. 

“Say man I’m looking for some 'action'.” Weaver continued.

“What do you want?” DuBois replied.

“Something for the nose; I hear you’re doing some pretty good stuff.” Weaver replied.

“What kind of quantity are we talking about?” DuBois asked. 

“Can you do me an ounce of coke?” Weaver asked.

“Yeah: Don’t I recall you being with the Cleveland organisation?” DuBois commented.

“There aint nobody with THEM no more; I mean it’s every man for himself. Can you dig it?” 

“Yeah I can dig it. I can do you an ounce. I can do you a pound. You want it?” DuBois offered.

“An ounce is cool; how much?” Weaver asked.

“Eight - five - oh.” DuBois replied.

“Eight hundred and fifty?” Weaver asked incredulous.

“Yeah”

“Dollars?”

“Yeah!”

“Man I can do better than that on the street!” Weaver commented.

“Suit yourself.” DuBois replied.

“How many times has it been ‘stepped on’?” Weaver asked.

“It aint; this is pure Colombian cocaine.” DuBois anwered.

“OK.”

“I aint seein’ no ‘dough’.” DuBois commented.

“I aint seein’ no COKE!” Weaver replied. 

We heard the sound of laughter and hands slapping together and the sound of feet on wooden steps. We gave them a few minutes to get into the alley at the back of the pool hall. Then there was the sound of feet on gravel and of a car door being opened. Weaver and DuBois were out back in the alley. We then heard the sound of a plastic bag being rustled.

“Here.” DuBois offered.

“Don’t mind if I DO! Let me borrow your coke spoon.” Weaver replied. There was a pause then the sound of rustling and sniffing. Then DuBois let out a laugh.

“Gotta get ME a little taste of that myself! THAT’S what I call cocaine Gil; puts a freeze on your face that won’t fall off!”

“That’s high-class stuff man.” We made our move; us, and a couple squad cars for effect. “Hey man you set me up!” Weaver cried out.

“Are you serious man?” DuBois yelled back at him. We arrested Weaver and DuBois and took them back to the precinct for processing.

****

We kept both men in the holding cage for the rest of the night and then continued with our plan: getting DuBois’ bail set ridiculously high to see how badly Tomaso wanted him back out on the street. Saperstein walked over and unlocking the door informed Weaver - using his alias of Jones - that his bail had been ‘made’. DuBois began to move forward, but I pushed him back.

“You aint seen the last of me brother!” Weaver informed him.

“Say man; what kind of fool sets up his own self?” DuBois asked.

“Fool like YOU sucker!” Weaver replied, as he headed out across the squad room toward the door. Making sure DuBois couldn’t see, Weaver then walked into the interrogation room and into my office via the connecting door where, once the door was closed, we could talk in private.

DuBois stepped forward again and asked if anyone had ‘made’ HIS bail yet, I told him that we couldn’t find an armoured car this time of night. The judge had set his bail at a hundred ‘thou’… that’s a hundred ‘large'. I told him he must have been a very naughty boy before pushing him back into the cage. Saperstein slammed the door shut and locked it.

****

I sat in my office with Weaver; the light was off to make it look as if the room was empty. I told him I needed him to deliver a message to Tomaso, that if he was convincing and they bought it, they’d make an attempt to kill DuBois the moment he left the precinct. Weaver went off to deliver my message. I opened the door to the squad room and yelled for Fowler; keeping my eye on DuBois, who was also watching ME. 

****

A while later I took my coffee and cigarette into the squad room. DuBois had been let out of the cage and was sitting at a desk playing with a typewriter.

He asked what kind of game we were playing on his head. I told him I wasn’t playing ANY games. He wasn’t ‘buying it’. First someone had set him up on a coke bust, and then his bail had been set at a massive one hundred thousand dollars. He’d never heard of anyone’s bail being set so high. I told him he was lucky to get ANY bail set. He thought we were kidding him and informed me that the DA wouldn’t even take the time to take the case to court. He continued playing with the typewriter and frustrated I kicked him and the chair away from the desk. I told him in no uncertain terms that I was NOT lying and he would be going to jail – for life; that he was going to be spending his remaining time in an eight-foot cell and the only way he’d be getting out would be in a pine box. He still didn’t ‘get it’ and accused me of being ‘high’.

I showed him the photograph of Mrs Cistorna. I asked if he recognised her. He didn’t, and asked why he SHOULD. I informed him that he’d shot her dead on Columbus Day. Naturally he tried to deny it. I informed him that he’d pulled the phoney hit on Tomaso and he'd killed that sweet little old lady and I had him ‘dead on’. I told him I’d got witnesses and his prints were on the gun we'd found at the warehouse. He yelled that we couldn’t ‘tie him’ to the gun. I reminded him that he was in a lot of trouble, but, if he co-operated maybe I could make a deal for him with the DA. DuBois looked doubtful and then asked for his lawyer. I agreed and yelled for Fowler to get us some coffee.

****

After he’d phoned his lawyer, I ‘invited’ DuBois to join me in my office. I asked him, would it be worth it, spending the rest of his life in Danemora while Tomaso was on the ‘outside’ living the good life. I asked what his percentage was. DuBois reminded me that if he were to ‘finger’ Tomaso he’d be a dead man in less than a day. I got up and walked round my desk, and told him we could offer him protection. DuBois laughed and told me there was no such thing, that Tomaso would still be able to get him if he were six feet under. There was a knock at the door; it was Stavros who’d come to let me know DuBois’ bail had been ‘made’. I asked him to think about my offer. After all who could want him SO badly that he’d be willing to ‘put up’ a hundred thousand, I asked. Then I told him to take care of himself: he told me to go to hell. I watched as he headed downstairs to meet with his attorney. 

****

After heading outside I watched from across the street as DuBois came out of the precinct, hailed a cab and headed off. Crocker pulled up in my car, I got in and we set off after the taxi. I told my detective to hug the cab’s tail as we knew that Tomaso’s men would try to ‘hit’ DuBois the first chance they got.

“Can you believe it; they’re going clear up to Harlem.” Crocker remarked. I asked him, if HE was black and knew Tomaso was going to ‘hit’ him, where would HE go? The lights changed, but I ordered Crocker to 'run' them and keep going.

The cab turned onto West 132nd Street. Out of nowhere a large dark Chrysler appeared from a side street, and squeezed between the cab and us. Serafin was driving and I could see Tomaso in the passenger seat. 

“It’s Tomaso!” I yelled at Crocker, who put his foot down. I put the red light on the car roof and switched on the siren. A little further along we spotted DuBois getting out of the cab and paying the driver. Tomaso leaned out of the car window and fired his gun as he and Serafin drove past. Just in time DuBois threw himself behind the cab and into a pile of trash. The Chrysler roared off, we followed. I fired several times and must have got lucky as the car suddenly veered off the road and crashed through a bar window. Shaken, Tomaso got out of the vehicle and tried to make a run for it. With his bad leg he wasn’t going to get far. I told Crocker to check on Serafin while I went after his boss. 

I could see Tomaso ahead of me hobbling across the street. He turned and fired at me twice. I ducked down and taking my time, aimed and fired, hitting him in his good leg. I ran up to him and nudged him with my foot, rolling him from his side onto his back; I crouched down to make sure he was still alive.

Crocker arrived and informed me that Serafin was dead, and that he'd called for an ambulance which was as en route along with the rest of the clear-up team, and I suspect to make sure I was alright. Tomaso took one look at the pair of us and spat angrily onto the concrete. Beautiful!

****

After everything had been wound up I finally arrived back at the precinct and was sat in my office, the only illumination coming from the desk lamp. Frank arrived a while later and sat across the room from me. He was looking through the case file.

“There’s enough here for the Grand Jury to indict Tomaso and his friends on sixteen counts. It’ll put those bums away for fifty years!” he said as he handed the file to me. 

“Not good enough!” I opened the cover and pulled out the photo of sweet little Mrs Cistorna

“They put HER away for an eternity.” Frank nodded.

“So how did you find out about Tomaso ordering the hit on himself?” he asked. I told him about the hard work Crocker had put in.

“He’s a good man.” Frank remarked.

“Yes he is,” I replied, pleased the kid had finally got some praise from our captain. “Does that mean I get to keep him?” I asked. Frank smiled and nodded. Then he got up and wishing me good night left the room. I continued to stare at Mrs Cistorno’s photo for a while before finally putting it back in the file and closing the cover. I got up off my chair and grabbing my coat and hat switched off the desk light and headed for home.


End file.
